Beachcombing
O foam! Do you hear
The beat of water
We become?
I comb the beach —
The waves are fast.
The foam floats out of reach.
I seek what lasts.
I hear the ocean drum.
How rare, the swell
That bears a shell.
A poem, in poems. Seasonal.
Made . Brought in .
clear · 21° · SE 5 kt · only the sun and moon and stars